A Man Walks Into A Bar
by RadiumDreams
Summary: ...and walks out with a companion (of sorts). The quest for a place to belong is long, and fraught with difficulty... and vigilanteism... and the liberation of oppressed peoples of all kinds. It's a tough job, but someone's gotta do it.
1. Chapter 1

Charon was on edge. The metal-plated figure that'd arrived in Underworld minutes ago was already creating a stir, and as a result it seemed the entire population of the small settlement was filtering into the bar to try and catch a glimpse of the… thing. Charon had seen power armour before – they all had, of course, what with the Brotherhood assholes outside firing indiscriminately towards super mutant and ghoul alike – and yet, this didn't seem like a Brotherhood asshole. It didn't seem like a bigot, for one thing.

"_I'm only here to trade,"_ it had said to his cocked shotgun minutes ago, and so far it had held true to its word. Nevertheless, Charon felt antsy. People normally didn't tend to carry that much ordinance on their person unless they were planning on using it eventually.

The armoured figure at the bar hovered over a stool, before seeming to change their mind, probably realising the centuries-old wood would not stand up to their weight. They settled for instead leaning on the bar, which, after letting out a single pitiful creak, did an impressive job of propping the visitor up without much complaint.

"_I'm looking to sell, if you're interested,"_ the visitor croaked through the static-y filter of their helmet.

"That depends entirely on what you're selling," the bartender wheezed in reply, eyes narrowed in suspicion. It seemed that Old Uncle Ahzrukhal would not make an appearance today.

"_Just a few things I'm not interested in,"_ the visitor replied. _"I need to clear up some space."_ It awkwardly shrugged a dusty fabric sack off of its back – power armour joints weren't really _made_ to move like that, Charon was sure – and rooted around in it. The bag thumped against the floor with a muffled clattering as the visitor bent and rifled through it, showing off glowing blue… _things_ protruding from its back. Electricity sparked from them and he nearly jumped, trigger finger itching. Ahzrukhal levelled a stare at him; _keep an eye on this one._ The figure straightened.

"_I've got some things you may be interested in,"_ it said, placing bottle after bottle upon the counter. _"Whiskey, scotch, vodka. Name a price."_ Unrepentant greed flushed across Ahzrukhal's face at the offer. He looked, Charon thought, like most men do when confronted with a big, juicy steak. The visitor settled for a measly 5 caps a bottle and Ahzrukhal looked unbearably smug. The armoured person looked maybe taller now, certainly less slouching with forty pounds less weight on them. Servos whir as it makes its way out of the door and the bar is as boring as ever. The first round is, apparently, on Ahzrukhal, which Charon knows by experience will not be the crowd's last. It's a great way to sucker people out of their money, and especially cheap today.

Charon never expects to see the man in power armour again. He settles against the wall, in his corner, and waits for the next boring sixty years to pass by, so when that same person bursts through the door the very next day he is, to say the least, surprised.

They seem breathless, maybe. It's hard to tell behind the mask, of course, but they've stopped abruptly in front of the bar, quiet but in a foreboding way. Maybe it's the necklace of assault rifles they're wearing that clatter and clink in a way that makes him want to shiver or shoot something. It could be the frag grenades laced around their pelvic area with a wanton disregard for their own safety. Either way, they've made him uneasy – and he's not the only one judging by the unusual stillness pervading the bar. The usual sad acts that tend to hang around come hell or high water are now eyeing the exits while simultaneously leaning in closer, eager to leave, but loathe to miss any of the action that Underworld so badly craves. The person in the armour is clearly gearing up to speak now, though, so Charon stops his thoughts wandering and focuses his attention instead on the conversation at hand.

"_The man in the corner,"_ they rasp, metallic. _"Charon?"_ Ahzrukhal nods. _"I've heard he's your slave."_ Charon stiffens infinitesimally, hands twitching towards his shotgun, but barely.

"I prefer the word _employee_," Ahzrukhal replies, slimy and self-satisfied as always. If possible, the armoured individual's posture somehow manages to become even more visibly unimpressed.

"_How much?"_ it asks, and Ahzrukhal positively beams.

"Such a valuable asset to not only me, but Underworld in general – how could I put a price on that?" When the visitor fails to answer him, he quickly backtracks, eager to make a sale. "Well, I shall have to try, I suppose," he laughs wetly. The figure in the suit of armour moves as if alarmed by the hacking sound of someone possibly coughing up his own lungs, but otherwise fails to offer a price for his contract. "Two thousand caps. Take it or leave it."

Once again, Charon gets to watch as the figure shrugs off their cumbersome pack, made even more cumbersome by the addition of the truly staggering amount of armament near spilling out of it. After some small amount of fumbling, the figure produces another sack, and after opening it places one cap after another on the counter.

A good fifteen minutes must've passed as the stranger counted out the caps, and Ahzrukhal double-counted them, unwilling to lose even one to less than fastidious checking. He wouldn't be cheated out of anything that was rightfully his. The stranger was just as precise as he, however, and counted out two thousand without incident.

"_Satisfied?"_ the tinny voice asked, acerbic.

"Quite," Ahzrukhal groans back. It surprises Charon that he can even force any words to form through the unnatural grin on his face. "Charon's contract is yours. I'll give you the pleasure of informing him yourself."

The metal man makes his lumbering way over to Charon.

"You purchased my contract from Ahzrukhal," the ghoul states. The man opposite nods. "So, I am no longer in his service. That is good to know. Please, wait here. I must take care of something."

The man nods again.

"_By all means, do anything you need to."_

Charon shoots Ahzrukhal without ceremony. Rancid, irradiated blood spatters the caps he'd been counting and oozes over the floor. It's seeping into Charon's old boots, and they squelch as he shifts in them. He's somewhat aware that he's probably kneeling in some of his former employee's brain matter when he goes about retrieving the caps strewn about the floor, but can't find it within him to care. He stands up, futilely brushing at his clothing with his spare hand, and shoves the sack of caps back to his new employer.

"Let's go."

His employer nods, and gently pushes the bag of caps into his chest.

"_Let's."_

* * *

**_Thanks for your time, please tell me if you liked it! More soon..._**


	2. Chapter 2

They waste no time in Underworld, stopping only briefly at the Outfitters to trade off the necklace of hunting rifles for a few electronic scraps and all the chems they can carry. His new employer spares the armour only a second's look before dismissing it. _Too tall,_ they say gesturing at him. _Too short,_ they shrug at the meagre offerings. Their entire posture affects something not dissimilar to a wince; they appear contrite. Charon has done more with less. He does not mind.

They leave Underworld with little fanfare. The few ghouls that had been present to witness the… _business transaction_ are now trickling from the bar's doors, stumbling and disoriented from shock. Some are rather more vocal than others. His new employer seems to think it pertinent to leave sooner rather than later. Charon agrees.

It's dark out when they leave. It's lucky, because Charon's eyes are so used to the Stygian atmosphere in Underworld that he doubts he would have been able to adjust to the sun quickly enough to deal with all the Super Mutants, quickly enough to protect his employer.

It doesn't matter, though, because someone has killed every last one of them.

_"Watch your step,"_ his employer rasps as they slip through the fluorescent green goo liberally spattering the floor. They're obviously only remaining upright thanks to the suit's internal gyroscopic stabilizers; Charon himself is doing just fine in his combat boots apart from the squishy sensation that's getting right in between his toes. He'd sigh, but he's above that kind of thing, and also really sort of wants to make a good impression on his new employer. Anything for an easy life.

They only walk for a few hundred metres, anyway, until they duck into the Metro. The lighting's just as bad as he remembers from last time, except for more of those piles of goo radiating light along the way, drawing out a path they seem to be following. His employer picks their way across the terrain with little care for their surroundings, while Charon followed much more cautiously, until eventually they came upon a utility room… a _locked_ utility room.

Charon could have offered his services – _should_ have by all rights – but before he could open his mouth, the lock had been jimmied open and he was ushered inside, his employer locking the door behind them. It's dark, until they kick an armoured boot at a fission battery on the floor. The lantern it's connected to flickers to life, and they grumble at it nonsensically for a second before bustling around the small space. There are the usual metal shelves on either side of the small space and a mattress on the floor. The lantern is balanced precariously on one of the battered shelving units, its too-short electrical cord with its peeling rubber coating posing a health and safety _nightmare_ and isn't it _strange_ what his training will make him consider a threat in a world filled with radiation and mutation and evil people like Ahzrukhal—

An unseen office chair lounges unobtrusively in the corner, squeezed in between the back wall and one of the chairs; he only notices it because his employer is himself trying to squeeze into it. The metal armour is making the positioning difficult, but they're managing, even if the electric coils on their back do make the worst screeching sound as they scrape down the metal wall of their encampment. Charon watches all of this, and stands stock-still just inside of the door, feet carefully not treading on the mattress. He would not, would not _assume_—

_"Please, sleep,"_ his employer states. "_I'll keep watch_."

The chair is facing the door: it is tactically sound.

He lowers himself stiffly to the ground and reclines mechanically upon the makeshift bedding. The mattress is bare and smells of mould and old blood and sweaty traveller. He doesn't like it, but he's smelt worse – including probably himself at this point, covered as he is in parts of plasma goop and his old boss. _I will not sleep,_ he thinks, _I will just rest._

Soft hisses from the corner: pneumatics and hydraulics settle into place as the armour does so. His employer is fidgety, or maybe, he thinks, vigilant.

_Maybe I will nap,_ he amends to himself, _but only a short while._

He is lulled to sleep by hisses and beeps and quiet clanks and fidgeting feet and it is wonderful.

When he wakes it is to a very familiar wheezing clatter – not the hissing of pneumatic armour, but the soft, sharp puff of a jet inhaler he knows all too well. The empty vessel is stashed in the bag once again, and he listens to his employer with his eyes closed for a moment or two. Their breathing is laboured for a second, but he shortly hears the distinctive click of a helmet slotting into place: air filters whirr and render their breath static. Charon opens his eyes.

His employer is fidgeting once more, now, he realises, the effects of the jet. It can't be healthy for his employer. Charon sits up, offers to take watch. They shrug awkwardly, ask: _"Are you rested?"_

"Yes," he replies, almost surprised as he takes stock of himself. He is not tired, never tired thanks to the dubious blessings from his past, but he is… better than usual. A few hours' sleep must have done some good. His employer is silent for a while, and he can almost feel their gaze burning into him despite the layer of metal between them. Finally, they relent.

_"Good,"_ they say, followed by, _"Let's go," _so they go.

It's light outside now, but the sun is high in the sky – past its apex, in fact, but that doesn't make sense because it was dark when they left Underworld, so…

"How long did I sleep?"

He immediately regrets asking, berating himself internally. Luckily, his employer doesn't seem to mind.

_"A few days?"_ they shrug, an estimate. _"It's good you woke up. You must be hungry."_ Charon grunts his assent, in shock. _"Thought so. When'dya last eat?"_ Charon shrugs again. His employer spits a few choice words angrily that their helmet garbles beyond comprehension. Charon can't find it in himself to be offended. He's damaged goods and he knows it. They meander around for a bit outside. His employer looks at their wrist a lot, while he looks around them, keeping vigilant. He doesn't know what they're doing, but his place is not to know, or question. His is just to do.

They stop eventually by the burnt out shell of an old car. It takes a minute for his power-assisted employer to wrench the hood open and expose its innards. He must look more puzzled than usual because his employer starts talking to him, explaining.

_"It isn't healthy,"_ the tell him, _"To suddenly eat if you haven't in a while."_ They're cracking open the packaging on their supplies and packing them around the car's old fusion reactor. Charon can feel the tingle on his skin, the soothing heat, from here. It's a wonder his employer can handle it. He briefly entertains the idea that his employer might be a ghoul – their voice certainly grates enough through the helmet's speakers. _"Sure,"_ they continue, _"I could just get you to sit in the car, but it's always quicker to go for the more direct route."_ It's probably more than he's heard his employer say at any one time, but for all the words he doesn't understand what they're saying. A few minutes have passed now, and they hand him a bottle of water. It's warm in his hands, and tickles his throat on the way down. More than anything, it's clean. He doesn't understand.

"Why not the river?" he croaks after he's gulped down the bottle. After all, they are close enough, and purified water is hard to find – and expensive when you do.

_"I wouldn't wish that water on my worst enemy,"_ they snarl, and the tinny dissonance the helmet provides sends a shiver down his spine. He makes the executive decision not to complain again. His employer's anger appears short-lived, however, as soon enough they are forcing more food on him, encouraging him to eat as much as he can. _"The radiation should heal your stomach,"_ they assure him, and then when he protests, they reply, _"Well, it's not like __**I**__ can eat it,"_ which is true, and that puzzles Charon even more. Nevertheless, he doesn't question it _too_ much.

_"Done?" _they finally ask.

"Yes," he replies. He feels stronger than he has for years, ready for anything.

_"Then let's go. It's not too far."_

As is his lot in life, Charon follows.

* * *

_**Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it. A bit of a slow start, I know, but next chapter (fingers crossed) things will get heated up a little bit. Please let me know if you liked it!**_


	3. Chapter 3

His employer dawdles, because of course they do. They start walking at a reasonable pace, and he follows, then they slow down, and he follows, until eventually they reach a ridiculous crawling pace that a mole rat could outrun. His employer's head twists to the side, having to turn a good 100 degrees or so due to their suit's restrictive field of vision, in order to look him in the eye… figuratively, at least.

"_Are you tired?"_ They ask, abrupt.

"No," he replies. They have now ground to a complete halt and he itches for movement.

"_Then please stand by my side,_" they rasp. "_I don't like people behind me."_

Which is stupid, Charon thinks, because behind you is exactly where you need people you can trust, to protect you. He stares at their power armour a second more, before moving to stand at his employer's side, if not hanging back just a little. It's not as if they really _need_ protection as such, not with all that metal covering him. His employer's helmet points in his direction, and they remain silent. '_I see you,'_ they seem to say; _ 'I see you disobeying me.'_ He shuffles forward a bit at this. His employer nods, either in recognition or gratitude or something else.

_"I want to get there by nightfall,"_ they announce, unprompted. _"Are you up for it?"_

"Get where?" Charon rasps.

_"Lincoln Memorial,"_ his employer replies. "_'Bout two miles North-West. Up for it?"_

"Two miles?" Charon snorts in amusement, a vile sound considering he has no nasal cartilage to speak of. "I could do that with my eyes shut. And my legs amputated."

_"Yes, well,"_ his employer replies, he'd dare to say _amused_, "_Let's hope it doesn't come to that."_

In the end, it takes them an hour or so to get there, tracking through the rubble and scavenging as they go. Charon's seen the ridiculous amount of caps stretching out their pack, and he guesses this is where it all comes from. Hunting rifles, the Super-Mutant weapon of choice, are aplenty, and they soon amass another necklace of them by picking through the ruins of buildings and corpses alike. It slows them down, but Charon doesn't mind. If their goal to get to the memorial is nightfall, then by that measure they're making good time.

The memorial soon crests on the horizon, remarkably intact after all these years, and it becomes apparent that this is not just a sightseeing visit. The memorial is… _inhabited_, which is something Charon does _not_ remember from before the war.

"I don't like the look of this place," he warns, but his employer lumbers forwards anyway. The power armour tackles the stairs awkwardly, joints hissing and creaking and clanging and complaining, but they get to the top without anything _too_ important breaking, where they immediately start handing the rifles out like old-world candy. (Or rather, completely _unlike_ old-world candy, which is now so rare that it would be coveted and kept by anyone who happened to find it… except, perhaps, he thought, looking at their generosity so far, his employer.) A rather dishevelled-looking, diminutive man is pushed through the collected group, and he and Charon's employer shake hands.

"I really can't thank you enough," he claims, shaking their hand tirelessly, almost to the point of aggression. "You've already done so much for us."

_"Don't worry about it,"_ they crackle in reply. _"It was nothing."_ There's a pause for a moment as his employer looks around. _"Lincoln looks good."_

The man they are talking to rattles on for a while about the statue, explaining about the head's tragic loss and ultimate rejoining thanks to someone or other. Charon's not really listening, instead focusing on all of the suddenly armed civilians surrounding him cluelessly messing around with their newfound weapons.

_"Listen, Hannibal,"_ his employer interrupts when this man, Hannibal, finally takes a break to breathe, thank god. _"I __**did**__ come here for a reason."_ Hannibal's mouth clicks shut and he nods shortly; he's listening. _"I've got another one for you."_ His employer's helmet swivels and nods in his direction and oh-

"Ah!" Hannibal exclaims, while Charon's world is once again thrown into disarray. "Another of my brothers liberated!"

His employer shrugs.

_"I found him in Underworld,"_ they remark casually, if their air filters could portray such a thing, _"His owner must've been a horrible man. I didn't know him long."_

"Slave-owners generally are," the short, greying man agreed, before reaching out to guide Charon… to him? To his side? Wherever he wanted him, Charon wasn't interested in going. He drew his shotgun. The man seemed relatively unfazed, merely putting his arms back down and looking askance at his employer. "He doesn't seem to want to be here."

_"He doesn't talk much."_

"Neither do you." A pause. "You did tell him why you're here?" A longer, infinitely more damning pause. Hannibal sighs heavily, albeit with affection, and turns to Charon.

"This," he states, spreading his arms around him, clearly trying to create a sense of grandeur, "Is the Temple of the Union. We're a group dedicated to the liberation and hiding of both escaped and freed slaves like yourself." The grabbing hand returns and is dodged with little difficulty. Hannibal continues regardless. "I see the supply run wasn't just from the goodness of your heart."

Charon can sense his employer bristle.

_"Everything I do,"_ they say, and the air almost crackles with the intensity of their feeling, _"Is because of the goodness of my heart."_ It seems like a sore spot of sorts, and Hannibal, as self-interested as he may seem, seems to notice this as well, quickly changing the subject.

"Anyway, you'll feel quite at home here!" he rushes to assure Charon, who feels anything but assured looking around the monument at the domestic scene. Old women in rags wash clothes and cook over an open fire, young men and old haul stone and lumber for some sort of masonry project, for burning and building and any range of things while children run through all the surrounding activities with reckless abandon. It's sickening, and he most certainly doesn't belong.

"Permission to speak freely," he grates out, and his employer startles before shaking out their power-armoured arms in something like irritation.

_"Of course you have my permission – you don't __**need**__ my permission to speak freely – you're a __**free**__ man!"_

The words tumble out of them with the same conviction and speed as the following words do from him:

"Except I am not free."

There's another moment's silence. Charon imagines that maybe his employer is agape behind their helmet.

_"What do you __**mean**__ you're not free?"_ They throw their hands up in the air, or try to, but the armour's joints don't quite go that far. _"I didn't buy you to be a slave, I bought you to __**free**__ you!"_

Charon's face remains perfectly neutral, and betrays none of the resentment he feels as he says: "If that was your intention, then you should have read the contract."

His employer fishes out his contract and looks at it. It's old, and worn, and preserved by the oils of thousands of fingers clutching it through hundreds of years of time. Its appearance is in fact not entirely unlike that of wax paper, and Charon knows the words on it by heart, which is funny considering he's never held it in his life. He hasn't had to – the words are etched into the entire fabric of his being. The paper is of little consequence other than as a mark of ownership. Minutes pass as it is scrutinised; Charon can almost feel their eyes scanning the words of his soul. Finally, they lower the slip of paper to their side, fingers worrying it absentmindedly as they speak.

_"There's no way out," _they ask, _"Is there?"_

He shakes his head, says no.

_"If I rip it?"_

"I will still be bound. The constrictions of the contract exist in here," he explains, gesturing at his skull, grossly visible through the shedding skin on his forehead. "Paper contract or not, I will follow you, or whoever you choose to bestow my services upon."

_"I could give it to Hannibal?"_

"In the interests of your safety, the contract must be exchanged only in the form of a transaction or verbal contract. Coercion in either direction will not be accepted as an acceptable means to transfer the contract."

He recites lines from his training as if it was yesterday, and both people opposite him look to grow increasingly perturbed.

_"…Hannibal?"_ His employer asks, their voice small and plaintive despite the armour's tinny amplification system.

"I'm sorry," the man replies, and he _does_ appear sorry no matter how disturbed he also looks, "But I cannot in good conscience keep what is for all intents and purposes _a slave_, no matter how you dress it, _here_ of _all places_." He looks increasingly uncomfortable as he continues. "I know you mean well, but I think perhaps you'd better not come back."

His employer doesn't move. Not a single servo shifts, no joints creak or pneumatic vents puff. For a second, all is quiet and still.

Just as quietly, his employer turns in place and lurches back down the stairs.

As always, Charon follows.

* * *

_**I am just pleased as punch you guys are enjoying it so far! Please let me know if you liked it this time! Thanks so much for your time.**_


	4. Chapter 4

They trudge along in silence for longer than Charon is strictly comfortable with. It's not the walking that's annoying him, even if he _is_ tragically unfit from his brief sojourn in Underworld, but his employer's awful, foreboding silence. Admittedly, Charon's not the most loquacious of people, but despite being bound to selective muteness (barring some choice phrases such as "talk to Ahzrukhal" or "get out of here" or "move another finger and you'll be picking them up from the floor") for the last few years (decades) he's become used to a constant background of inane chatter and the radio playing and drunken laughter. It's… unnerving, being completely bereft of sound. He coughs to fill the space, and it's a horrible, choking, bubbling kind of sound. He winces on his employer's behalf, immediately regretting his decision. However, they seem to understand him.

"_We'll talk about this_," they throw over their shoulder, ignoring the fact that Charon is once again walking behind them. "_Just… not here._"

"Then where?" Charon asks, interpreting his employer's words from earlier as an ongoing order. Charon loves loopholes.

"Safe house." They glance at their wrist for a moment, point vaguely northwest. "That way. Few minutes." Charon nods and they trudge along again. The way they take is somewhat more circuitous Charon probably would have chosen but the power armour is cumbersome, making some shortcuts more difficult to traverse than they're worth. They're tracking the Potomac's banks. Fluorescent sludge lays smeared over their path, treaded into the old tarmac with old footprints but no less slimy for it. There's a very real threat of accidentally slipping and falling into the river along this stretch, so Charon is – for once – grateful for his employer's slow pace. There's a barricade set up ahead, blocking off the path but for a small opening. A sign proclaims: _Keep Yor Wepons Holstred or Get Shot._ If anything that sign makes Charon want to take his gun _out_ rather than keep it holstered, and he does just that.

_"Can't you read?"_ his employer snorts, rather rudely.

"I can," he replies, just short of a growl.

_"Then keep your weapon holstered."_

Charon grumbles and opens his mouth to reply, when his employer elaborates.

_"This is it."_

_It_ is a gargantuan building, at least eight stories tall and ostentatious as anything. There's little bits of cornicing towards the top supporting a balcony, and little towers on top and quaint little windows and a huge stone arched door and a huge stone fountain out front. Even more impressive than all those features is the fact that it's all relatively _in tact_.

"_This_ is your safe house?" His voice comes out a little higher than usual, sceptical. "It's a bit…"

_"Obvious?"_

His silence is all the answer that is necessary. He thinks his employer laughs under their helmet.

_"Well, you're right there. The guy who owned this before me…" _They scoff, a burst of static._ "Well, he was a real piece of work."_

"Hah," Charon almost laughs. Almost. It seems as if his employer takes it the wrong way, though, as they soon rush to explain themselves.

_"Well, it's easily defensible,"_ they argue, _"And it's… well, it's pretty big."_ They're saying the word 'well' too often, and now that Charon's noticed it, it's bothering him. They're nervous. Hiding something. Flustered.

"Whatever works, works." Charon shrugs. His employer must suddenly realise that they've been stood still for this conversation, because they suddenly lurch through the gap in the barricade, muttering as they go.

_"Remind me to take down that sign."_

Finally, an order – _that_ Charon can do.

They amble past the fountain. Someone's taken the effort to half-fill the cracked concrete basin with water, and there's an old rubber duck bobbing jauntily along on top. It's a flagrant waste of resources that amuses and angers him in equal measures. While he stands around admiring the scenery and generally being useless, his employer busies himself with the business of disarming the plethora of traps around the door. Minutes pass before the all clear is called, and together they lurch for the door and the promise of a roof over their heads along with some food and maybe a shower.

An armoured hand touches his chest and he flinches back.

_"Sorry,"_ his employer says, even though they don't have to. Strange. _"But I should probably go in first."_

"It's your house," he replies. "And I'm bound to do as you order," he doesn't say, but it's there in the back of his mind.

_"Thanks,"_ they say, and, _"It'll just be a second."_ His employer slips through the door, somehow leaving it open only a sliver, not nearly enough for Charon to look through. Probably a good thing, though, he thinks, as very soon he hears his employer shouting, _"Girls, I'm home!"_ The last thing Charon wants to get stuck in the middle of is a _heartfelt_ welcome-home shag between his employer and his resident groupies. Ugh. At least with Ahzrukhal as his employer there was no chance of _that_. Charon's hearing's always been nothing short of stellar, so he's rather surprised when instead of hearing his employers and his girls getting down and dirty, he hears "welcome back, _master,"_ which isn't that unusual for some playboy types, but…

_"__**Don't,**__ Cherry."_

"Aww, sorry, honey. You know I'm just joking."

_"Yeah. It's a sore point."_

Shifting fabric, creaking metal.

"Oh, sweetie. You found another one?"

_"Yeah. He's… unusual."_

Charon's hackles rise. He's not meant to be hearing this… but he wasn't told specifically not to. Besides, he likes knowing where he stands with his employers.

"_He?_ Yeah, I _bet_ he is."

_"Yeah, well… He's more unusual than that."_ His employer raises his voice. _"Charon!"_

Charon nudges the door open a little more, and steps just inside the threshold. There's a redheaded woman across from his employer dressed in some sort of brahmin-skin getup, and she gasps when she sees him.

"Honey, he's a…" She cuts herself off, perhaps feeling the weight of his employer's gaze burning on their skin. "Uh, he's… He's really tall," she trails off pathetically, before raising a hand weakly in a kind of wave. Charon grunts, and quickly turns his attention to his surroundings.

The room is cavernous, by wasteland standards, two stories high with ionic columns and ornately balustraded staircases. Slightly less classy are the jukebox hanging from the ceiling, and the… questionable light fixture. He raises an eyebrow, but otherwise doesn't judge. It's impressive enough to find working light bulbs nowadays – there's really no point in complaining about the shape they come in… even if that shape does happen to be of two women in the throes of passion. It's a perfect example of the dichotomies that characterise this place; likewise the floor is bedecked in Persian rugs but also laid out like a barracks, with rusting bedsteads lining the walls. Furthermore, the place is _filled_ with girls. He had thought that the plural would refer to two, or maybe three girls at a stretch, but _this…_ Some of them were playing pool on a weathered table, or lounging in a well-appointed reading nook. Some of them even slept on… were those _yao guai pelts?_ A word escaped the remains of his lips before he could begin to think about stopping it.

"What."

_"We'll talk,"_ his employer insists, _"Upstairs."_ They turn to the redhead, Cherry. _"My room free?"_

"Always, sweetie," she replies, voice betraying nothing of her feelings. Good actor, this one. "You want any dinner, sugar?"

_"Only if it's no trouble,"_ they say.

"It's no trouble at all."

_"Well, then, yes. Make it big, please. Charon eats a lot."_

"Sure thing, sweetheart."

Charon may be looking incredulous at this point in time. He's not entirely sure if his face is still capable of that emotion – or any emotion in fact – but either way his employer seems to notice it.

_"Cherry and the girls let me stay here from time to time, in exchange for caps and such."_ They shrug. _"They're too generous, really."_

Cherry has obviously heard this from where she's walking away as she scoffs and shakes her head, but doesn't reply. Some of the nearer girls giggle, all entertaining a secret that they know and he doesn't. A muscle in his jaw twitches. An armoured hand tugs gently at his arm.

_"This way."_

He's led up to the second floor, into a room with the biggest bed he's seen for years. It was probably a storage room once, considering there are no windows to be seen, but he likes it. Less chance of being shot.

_"You can sleep here,"_ his employer says. _"I really don't think you'd fit on a bunk."_ They pause for a second. _"Besides, it's undignified."_

He doesn't know what they mean by that, so he stays quiet. The bed is lavish – you can't even _see_ the mattress for sheets, and it's practically smothered in more of those ridiculous yao guai pelts. He can barely smell any mould in this room at all, which is an impressive feat when there's so many pillows on the bed, which should by all rights be mangy as heck. It's a setup worthy of a king. Or…

"This is your bed."

His employer raises their arm to scratch at their neck, but they can't so it just sits there, redundant, for a moment instead.

_"Well, yeah."_

"Then why should I sleep here?" he asks. He's not trying to be obstinate, he just genuinely doesn't understand. He thinks his employer gets that, because they don't get angry at his questioning. They just sigh.

_"I'm just trying to do the right thing,"_ they say. _"That's what I always try and do."_ There's silence for a bit as they shift around, sorting out the right words to say. Finally, they blurt:

_"The first time I came here… That previous 'owner'? I shot him. Point blank."_ They scoff, and it sounds so bitter through their helmet. _"The stupid fuck was so drunk he didn't even react. Didn't panic. Just alive one minute and dead the next."_ Another pause. _"I suppose it's morbid, living in the house of your fallen adversary, but… these girls needed a home. He was using them for… favours… in exchange for a safe place to stay, and all the alcohol they could drink and chems they could use. I don't blame them,"_ they confess, _"For taking him up on it. Not everyone's lucky enough to have a suit of power armour. To be blessed with the upbringing that allows you to take care of yourself. To know better."_ It's spilling out of them at an alarming rate now, this little speech, a torrent of unspoken justification. _"So I killed him. It's not a crime to take advantage of someone. But it should be."_ A deep breath, a pause. Regaining some control, they continue. _"So, the girls live here now. And when I find more, I take them back. I drop off supplies, and books, and try to educate them. Hannibal means well at the Memorial, but the free slaves are snobbish about their history and refuse those who are 'weak of mind' like my girls. Like they're somehow less for having no other options."_ There's a heavy, static sigh.

_"Enough of my monologue, anyway. The bed's yours tonight, so use it. __**I**__ won't be. There's a shower down the hall. The water heater actually __**works**__ here as well, so I'd recommend you use it while you can."_

His employer ambles down the stairs, and all Charon can do is walk into the bathroom in a daze and try and work through the knowledge he's been given.

* * *

_**Thank you guys so much for the stellar reception to my last chapter! To my dear reviewers, please, if you do have accounts, log into them when you send me review so that I can reply to you and thank you personally! Please let me know what, if anything, you liked/how I can improve, etc. Shoutouts to everyone else, thank you so much for your time.**_


	5. Chapter 5

His employer is right – the water is warm, and clean, and blessedly irradiated – and he luxuriates in the tingle as he washes away the ache in his knees. The few hours' walk tested him; he can feel it in his joints. He's not incapable, or slow. Mentally he's sharp as ever. His hands rub firm, harsh circles into the bend of his elbows, his shoulders, his ankles. Tendons unused to exercise strain under the pressure of his thumbs as he determinedly works life back into his pathetic, half-dead body. The radiation helps.

The bathroom is cleaner than he'd expected, although it's hardly surprising considering the yardstick for comparison includes public bathrooms that haven't been cleaned since before the war and the Potomac's filth. He's even more surprised by the small, innocuous bar of… soap? It's less of a bar, actually, and more of a sliver, but it's sticky and slippery in his hands and it smells like musk and tobacco and it's too late now because it's already disintegrating in his hands and it'd be a waste not to use it now and the water's coming away brown with mud and blood and sweat and it's going to be hell getting back into that armour now, he knows it.

With his eyes closed in this steamy room he can almost imagine it's a sleepy Sunday, and he's slept in 'til eleven, and all he's got to do is have a shower and watch the football and drink himself into a coma. The bare bone of his skull scrapes against an errant fingernail. A few pathetic strands of hair flick soap into his eyes. The illusion is broken. He finishes washing in minutes.

Armour on.

Downstairs.

His employer's sitting on a ratty old couch, attempting to read a book. Attempting, he thinks, because the girls splayed out around them won't let them alone to read. Charon understands the need for peace. Evidently these girls do not.

"Shower's free," he says, selfless. If the sudden exhalation of air from under the suit of power armour means anything, Charon guesses it would be an expression of relief.

"Thank you, Charon," they rasp, extricating their self from the pile and picking their way delicately through arms and legs akimbo. They mutter under their breath as they go, and while Charon misses any exact words, he gets the general gist of it. His employer sighs, longsuffering, and the girls giggle collectively. "Make sure you feed Charon, girls. He needs his food." He almost turns to leave, before stuttering backwards again. "And _rest._ Don't you all bother him."

"Well, that's no fun," one of the girls grumbles, and the others seem to agree. One of them, frumpy in a Brahmin-skin hooded jacket with shaggy hair and bare feet, putters off to another room and returns with a bowl of something, which she coaxes into his hands. It's steaming, and upon further inspection appears to be a stew of some kind. Edible. From what his employer has told him, he gathers that none of these girls had… survival instincts in the traditional sense, and he finds himself – rather unintentionally – _proud_. Proud like a parent, or a teammate, or an army buddy, but he doesn't want to think about that because it's actually rather painful to dwell on, mentally and physically. Conditioning, or something. He doesn't spend too much time worrying about it, which is worrying in itself because really he should be more concerned about his mental processes but every time he thinks about certain things his mind just…

The stew's all right – as good as any food for which the main ingredient is rat _can_ be, anyway. The girls very determinedly _do not_ bother him, although the deliberate _not staring_ and _not looking_ and _not interested_ is grating on his nerves a little bit, and the more he finds himself staring at the wall practicing his impression of a statue the more annoyed he becomes at the efforts of one girl to read her way through the alphabet.

And that's how his employer walks in on him talking to half the girls in the house about why they're SPECIAL.

"…and L is for Luck," he grates out past his ruined vocal chords, "although you'll be darned to find any in this wasteland."

"_Should I feel offended?"_

A lesser person may have jumped in the air or screamed at the surprise; Charon feels his heart rate spike a few beats.

"No offence intended," he rasps, unsure how best to placate his new employer. They just wave it off. No big deal.

_"In which case,"_ they reply, _"None taken."_ The strange, static tension between them dissipates suddenly; his employer's attention snaps elsewhere. _"Girls! What did I say about bothering Charon?"_

Another luxuriously barefoot girl toes the ground and makes an effort to look innocent, and Charon reels.

"To not to?" they wheedle out, and his employer – predictably – lets them off the hook.

_"I know it's a rarity,"_ his employer sighs, exasperated maybe, _"But let the man rest."_ The girls 'awwww' and 'but' and 'no' but his employer is adamant, ferrying him up the stairs with one hand and shooing off the gaggle of girls with the other. _"I'll read to you later!"_ they throw over their shoulder when the complaints continue. At Charon's look, they immediately turn defensive. _"Well, maybe I won't turn them into the next Tesla, but you can hardly complain. After all,"_ they wiggle the cleverly-constructed fingers of their power gauntlets, joints clacking merrily as they do,_ "you enjoyed the fruits of their labour today."_

Charon continues to look blank, if only because his employer tends to talk more as he talks less, and so far he has found his employer… interesting.

_"Well, say what you want," _– he hasn't said anything – _"But I for one am glad that I no longer have to walk around smelling like the Potomac at low tide."_

Charon's facial muscles manage to pull off an impressive facsimile of a look of surprise.

"They made that? The soap?"

They have once again stopped in the middle of a task to chat about stupid, aimless things. Charon hopes it isn't going to become a habit.

_"Well,"_ they reply, and darn it if the smugness doesn't just ooze out of their air filter, _"You know what they say: teach a man to fish and he'll die cuz there ain't no fish in the Potomac, and the stuff they'll catch'll be irradiated to hell… Teach a woman to read, though… Well, there's knowledge untold in books. None of my girls are getting a free ride, either. I like to just think of this as a resting stop. They'll learn a trade and leave."_ They pause, make an aborted motion to scratch their arm. Metal scraping on metal. _"That's the plan anyway."_ They suddenly seem to realise where they're standing and how long they've been standing for. _"Sorry, you must be tired. I tell my girls not to bother you and here I am, chatting up a storm. Go to bed."_

Charon stares at them.

"If that is what you order."

_"It's not-"_ they protest, entirely unamused. _"It's not an order. It's a suggestion."_

Charon nearly backs down, but surrounded by this haven in the wastes, by all this kindness, he feels a rather unsettling urge to reciprocate. Hadn't his employer said earlier that he didn't need to ask for permission to speak? Loopholes, loopholes. He clears his throat to speak.

"I'll sleep," he groans, "But not in your room." He sees his employer moving to protest and cuts them off. "It's improper." They're obviously not convinced, so he continues. "Like you said, this place is easily defensible. And heavily trapped. You're safe. They're safe." I'll keep you safe. "I can take a cot downstairs." And keep an eye out.

His employer remains silent… until.

_"I… would like to get out of this tin can."_

"Then I'll see you in the morning."

His employer reaches up a metal-clad hand to grasp his shoulder. They're standing on their tiptoes just to reach, and it evokes something in him, a need to protect. Age has made him sentimental like that. They've known each other for a matter of hours, what's happening to him? Going soft… Their hand squeezes his shoulder gently, they rasp their thanks, and they disappear behind their door.

* * *

_**Sorry it's been a while, I had the flu. I know this just looks like self-indulgent character study, but really there is a point to it. Thanks for your time, lovelies, please drop me a line if you feel the inclination.**_


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